On the pleasant hillside sat they, where the silvery birches grow,
And th' eternal sun of midnight bathed them in its fitful glow--
She a maid of eighteen summers, fresh and fair as Norway's spring;
Tall and dark-browed he, like pine-woods in whose gloom the Hulders[1] sing,
When in silence,
Deep-toned silence,
Night lets droop her dusky wing.
It was now that he must leave her, and the waves and tempest breast:
Heavy-hearted sat they, gazing on the Yokul's flaming crest;
And she spoke: "O Ragnas, never, while yon airy peak shall gleam
O'er our home, shall I forget thee or our childhood's blissful dream,
Until silence,
Death and silence,
Freeze my heart and memory's stream."
Up he sprang, and boldly looked he toward the midnight-lighted west,
Seized her white, soft hand and pressed it closely to his throbbing breast,
And the love his childhood fostered, and in youth made warm his blood,
Trembled on his lips as trembles bursting flower in freezing bud:
Ah, but silence,
Fateful silence,
Held the mighty feeling's flood.
Years had passed with autumn's splendor, like a glistening shower of gems;
Doubly rich the sunlight streamed from the Yokul's diadems;
Once again in joyful rapture he his native vale beheld,
For the love long years had fostered whispered still of faith unquelled,
Spite of silence,
Hapless silence,
That the timid tongue had spelled.
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